


Come Quick, Danger

by sexybee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Phone Calls, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexybee/pseuds/sexybee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes when he's called.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Quick, Danger

His mobile rings just when things are about to start getting interesting.

"Is that your genius flatmate, then?" Sarah asks, the beginnings of a resigned smile passing over her face as she sinks back against the bed.

"What, Sherlock? Can't be. He never calls. I don't think he likes the chance that someone else might get a word in edgewise. No, probably just a wrong number. I'll ignore it." He digs the phone out of his pants from where they are lying on the floor.

"Wait," she says, the disappointment eclipsed by a wicked smile. "I have a better idea." She pulls him closer to the edge of the mattress. "Go ahead," Sarah murmurs, dragging his boxers down slowly over the erection tenting the front of them. She licks her lips and leans down so that her mouth puffs tiny bursts of warm, damp air against his cock when she speaks. "Answer the phone, John."

"_Christ_." John almost drops the mobile, trying to punch the right button and hoping to God it isn't Harry drunk-dialing him to wail about Clara. He can never get her off the phone for at least half an hour when she does that.

"John? Where are you? Never mind that, it's not important right now."

He cannot breathe. "Sherlock."

And that is Sarah's mouth tightening around the head of his cock, inching her way down as she runs her tongue down the slit and along the underside, following the path of the vein. John really, really needs to hang up now, because he knows, _knows_ that Sherlock is scarily omniscient at all times, and even non-genius sociopaths could probably figure out what was happening if this conversation lasted more than one sentence. But Sherlock probably already knows everything just from that one word, from the way John is breathing, from how tightly he is gripping the phone—how Sarah's nails are gently scratching down his left thigh, just a tease of sensation, how she hollows her cheeks as she sucks, gently rolling his balls with the other hand. Hell, he could probably tell you the exact timing of the random shivers that are running through John's body right now. He is probably about to get some horrific comment about fellatio technique while the actual fucking blowjob is happening, and _shit_, that should not be making him harder.

There has been, for Sherlock, what is an absolutely glacial pause. John knows it's not embarrassment, Sherlock doesn't know how to _be_ embarrassed. John is tempted to just hang up. But. Sherlock _never_ calls. Not for serial killers, not for mad bombers, not even for _Mycroft_. So he tells himself that it must be very important as he smashes the phone harder against his ear. John swallows, licking his dry lips. The muscles in the cheeks of his arse flex in time with the motion of Sarah's mouth. He tries vainly to conjure up images of people dead or dying, Afghanistan, Mrs. Hudson, anything to keep his voice steady as he manages to choke out, "What exactly do you need?"

There is a tiny noise on the other end of the line. John is _not_ a consulting detective, so he cannot tell if it is a small startled gasp or just Sherlock grunting impatiently over some fact that displeases him. He is teetering on the edge of just giving up, hitting the end call button and ending this agony, nerves stretched taut between two points, when Sherlock's low, dark voice reverberates against his ear again.

"John," he says, sounding urgent, sounding masterful, like a general commanding a battlefield, "I need you to come. Now."

He clicks off and John is gone, lost, flooding explosively into Sarah's mouth without so much as a gesture of warning, helpless, as always to avoid going where Sherlock points. He groans, now that it is safe for him to make noise again, shuddering through the final spurts, staggering backwards on shaky legs that refuse to cooperate fully. He wants to drop to all fours and pant roughly against the rug, like a dog. Pavlov's dog. That's what he is.

Sarah is wiping off her face against the sheet. "Problem?" she asks, carefully, and John knows she is wondering if Sherlock said something about her. But, at least on that, he can smother down the guilt to reassure her. Just the usual kind of problem, dead bodies somewhere, and he is truly sorry to do this to her, but he really must leave now. She has regained her equanimity, and remarks wryly that she will just have to make sure that she goes first next time. John kisses her cheek in goodbye as he does up his trousers and wonders if there will be a next time for them. Then he sets off as fast as he can for Sherlock.


End file.
